Vigil: Verity Fassbinder Book 1 (12 page)

The women were clustered on one of the grey- and white-tiled lookouts, the one closest to the tiny garden of St Mary’s Church,
at
the farthest end of the park. A glass and steel wall kept land and empty air apart. About thirty of them stood in a loose
arrow formation, hands by their sides, faces lifted to the moon, mouths moving in unison. They were all dressed differently
– anything else would have screamed ‘cult’ – but without exception each was beautiful. Just behind every one I could see a
sort of shimmer effect: the hidden wings.

As I neared, I focused on the woman at the tip of the arrow. She was older than her companions, although still enduringly
lovely, ageing gracefully with high cheekbones and a firm jaw. Others looked like extremely well preserved forties, a few
in their thirties, but the majority of them appeared to be young, late teens, early twenties. Many of these creatures were
ancient enough to have seen the Fall of Troy, but this was a relatively new nest, just over a hundred years old, in a small
community, owing to a general exodus when the proscription against human hors d’oeuvres came into effect.

I stopped a courteous distance from them and waited for the song to finish. Slowly the notes dropped away like leaves fallen
from a height, and as the music died, so the colour was restored to the cityscape. Then thirty heads turned to pin me with
luminous stares until one broke from the group, a glaring adolescent, and approached me.

‘You’re not welcome. This time is private.’

Mindful of Ziggi’s advice, I dipped my head respectfully. ‘I understand, and I wouldn’t interrupt if it were not important.’
I turned and locked gazes with the oldest. ‘I’m Verity Fassbinder. May I speak with you?’

She didn’t answer immediately and I tugged a sheet of paper from between the pages of the bestiary. McIntyre had emailed me
the photo, which I’d printed off in black and white, hoping it might not look so bad. ‘I think you might be missing someone.’

A long moment passed before she assented and I loosed a relieved breath. The crowd parted with reluctance; they were nervous,
no doubt about it, and there was something they couldn’t hide. Their fear had a smell, a scent of warm wet feathers.

I reached the matriarch and handed her the photograph.

It was just a headshot, and the face had been cleaned up as well as they could. She almost seemed to be sleeping, but it was
a leaden, hopeless kind of slumber. The woman looked at the image, her expression contorting, and pushed a fist against her
mouth to stop any sound. Two of the older females supported her to a bench and I kept pace, refusing to surrender my position
to the press of bodies, and hustled my way onto the seat next to her. Shaking, she stared at the photo.

Her child?

‘She was found early this morning at Waterfront Place,’ I said, gently. ‘She’d fallen.’

‘No siren falls!’ At least three voices joined in outrage until the woman beside me held up her hand for silence.

‘We know of you. What is your interest in this?’ she asked, amethyst eyes fixed on my green ones.

It’s always a bit nerve-wracking when your reputation precedes you.

‘Well, if you know of me, then you’ll know it’s what I do.’ I cleared my throat. ‘The Normals call me in when things are a
bit strange, and the Council expects me to help keep the peace among our kind.’

‘We’re not
your
kind,’ she said, her voice low with contempt. Sirens might like to hold themselves apart, but they are just a subset of the
Weyrd. However, opening that particular can of worms wasn’t going to get me very far, so I swallowed the urge to correct her.

‘I know that and you know that, but the Normals, not so much. So I have been given the job of finding out who she was and
what happened to her. I’d appreciate any help you could offer.’

She paused for so long I thought the answer was going to be a big fat ‘No’, but then, rather surprisingly, she said, ‘Serena
Kallos. Her name was Serena Kallos.’

‘
Serena Kallos?
’ Dumbfounded, I felt the blood drain from my face. The missed calls. The forgotten appointment. Rescuing Lizzie had got in
the way and I’d intended to ring her to apologise and reschedule. All my good intentions meant nothing now.

The other woman stared. ‘You knew her?’

‘No, but she’d phoned, arranged a meeting. It . . . it didn’t happen.’

She didn’t ask why and I was glad. I thought hard before continuing, ‘Was she related to anyone here?’

‘We’re all related at one remove or another,’ she said and smiled crookedly, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t telling me everything.
Tonight I’d get only the minimum, at least until they trusted me.

‘Was she seeing anyone? Was she afraid? Was anything happening that I should know about? Is there anything you can tell me?
Anyone know why was she calling me?’

‘Why should we tell
you
anything?’ The question shot from the group and was accompanied by some affronted agreement. Tough audience, this one.

‘Because I’m the only one who’s going to look into this,’ I said evenly, although my temper was starting to fray. ‘If you
know who did this, fine: off you go, get your vengeance. Just don’t put this city in danger, because that will lead to a whole
lot of trouble.’

I paused, meeting unfriendly gazes, letting them know I meant what I said. ‘On the other hand, if you don’t know, then talk
to me and I swear I’ll find whoever is responsible. This will be put to rights.’

‘Nothing will make this right. She will never sing again,’ the woman next to me said mournfully.

‘I can help. The police won’t –
can’t
– do anything about this. I’m your only hope.’ Even as I spoke I wasn’t sure that was entirely comforting.

‘I am Eurycleia,’ she said, ‘and you cannot help. Thank you for bringing this news. We will grieve for her, and deal with
it in our own fashion.’

I recognised a dismissal when I got one. Normally, I’d argue for a while, maybe call a few names, but Ziggi’s advice, bolstered
by the memory of my abject failure with Aspasia, won out. A gracious departure meant the door remained open. Putting one of
my cards on the picnic table, I said, ‘I’m sorry.’

I left the photo with Eurycleia and headed into the night, my breath frosting.

I didn’t think they knew who’d killed Serena Kallos. I
did
think they were scared. And I knew it would be a long time before I stopped playing ‘what if I’d made it to the rendezvous?’
Something also told me all was not going to be well, but I
would
hear from the sirens sooner or later. At that point there wasn’t much I could do except find other places to dig.

I was almost trotting to stay warm and I found myself wondering if it was too late – too soon?
too needy?
– to call David when a movement caught my eye. Near a break in the fence, at the wooden ramp leading into the churchyard,
some of the blackness was displaced. A figure retreated from the weak fingers of the park’s illumination, gestures wistful,
sad as an exile. Someone was watching from the gloom. In spite of my better judgment, I followed.

The church was an English one in miniature, its design, like so many things, transplanted from the motherland, but this was
made
with convict-cut stone, whetted with the blood of the banished. It was beautiful and uncanny in the moonlight. I circled it
clockwise, growing used to the deeper darkness. A paved path led to a side entrance with a shallow stoop and an arched wooden
door. Shadows shifted within. I had enough sense not to step into the porch –
be careful of thresholds
, Ziggi always said,
you never know where they might lead
– and retreated a few metres.

Squinting, I could see that there’d once been another wall. Ragged stones clung at the corner, a metre of frayed brickwork
hanging against the sky. There were absences in the remaining wall, holes where the masonry had been complete at one point.

I was mid-step, wanting to take a closer look, when a rock hit me hard on the side of the head. The skin broke just above
the eyebrow and the flow of blood was quick and warm. Running footsteps crunched down the cracked bitumen drive. Shaking off
dizziness and swearing loudly, I followed, but by the time I made it to the main road my quarry was gone. I wiped the wound,
winced, searching for the right words. ‘Fuckety fucks!’

If someone – one of the sirens? – thought that would warn me off, they’d badly miscalculated. I did recognise that it was
time to go home, though. Plotting revenge was always best done with a cold compress on whatever was bleeding or throbbing
or aching.

Screw it
. I had a name to give McIntyre, and a new burden of guilt that was all my own. That was enough for now.

‘I hate this place,’ Ziggi grumbled. ‘When are you gonna apologise to Aspasia?’

We sat outside Shaky Jake’s, beneath a comprehensively large sun-sail, but he still wore a cap and big fly-eye sunnies. His
skin pinked in the daylight, but apparently that wasn’t enough to make him run for cover, shouting, ‘I’m melting!’ He waved
at the waiter, who deftly failed to notice.

‘I’m not entirely sure an apology is required,’ I hedged. I didn’t need to see it to know he’d rolled his eyes. ‘Oh, all right!
When she’s stopped wanting to spit in my food.’

‘I’m gonna die of hunger.’ He switched from waving to making a gesture that was borderline obscene. The waiter, who was sporting
green dreadlocks and a sixth finger on each hand, studiously continued to ignore us.

‘If you keep doing that we’re going to be banned from this one too,’ I pointed out. ‘You can’t go to Little Venice by yourself?’

‘If I’m schlepping you around, it’s a work expense,’ he explained. ‘Just apologise!’

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

Given the conspicuous lack of service, the only meal I was likely to get was humble pie. The decor was nice and the location
on the river at New Farm to die for, though the food was pedestrian at
best – but beggars can’t be choosers. No matter what I might have said to Aspasia, Little Venice was never going to be in
any danger of losing clientele to Shaky Jake’s.

I stuck two fingers in my mouth and gave a high-pitched whistle. The waiter dropped the cup he was polishing and glared. We
had a brief staring competition, and when he lost he grudgingly walked over to our table, pulling a pad from his pocket.

‘I was on my way over,’ he mumbled.

‘At roughly the same speed as a glacier. Long black and a blueberry muffin for me, latte and a honeycomb-chocolate muffin
for my friend. No spit in our food and drinks, thanks.’ I leaned forward. ‘I’ll know it – and trust me, a withheld tip will
be the
least
of your worries.’ A throbbing head wound, coupled with hunger and the knowledge I was going to have to apologise to Aspasia
sooner rather than later was making me snippy.

The guy stormed towards the kitchen.

‘How will you know if he does stuff to our food?’

‘I won’t, but he doesn’t know that.’

Ziggi scratched at his thin ginger mop, then pointed to my face. ‘So, what happened?’

‘And here’s me thinking you’d never notice.’ The bruise was blue-black, a ways yet from yellowed edges, and there was a distinct
lump, though the cut had scabbed over. ‘I visited the sirens without causing a riot.’

‘That’s good.’

‘None of them knew – or would admit to knowing – why Serena Kallos called me. Afterwards, someone threw a rock at me.’

‘One of them?’

‘Could have been – it was dark. But it could have been someone else, possibly someone I offended.’ I glanced across the water
at the
open mouths of the old rain and sewage tunnels gaping in the bank opposite. They looked like they’d still be there when the
skyscrapers turned to dust.

‘That doesn’t narrow down the suspects.’

‘It never does,’ I agreed. ‘Anyway, have you found anything on the Winemaker? Deeds to the house? Fingerprints on the filing
cabinets? Her licence and/or birth certificate down the back of the couch? A convenient scrap of paper that just happens to
lead to an important witness? Anything?
Anything?
’

Ziggi had an enviable number of contacts among both Weyrd and Normal, and yet despite having a state-of-the-art mobile phone,
he kept everyone’s details in an elderly black address book held together with a rubber band. I didn’t make fun. The people
he knew could ferret out things your average Titles Office clerk couldn’t even begin to suspect existed.

‘First of all, I’ve got a question.’

‘Mmmm?’

‘Who was he?’

‘Do we really have to do this?’ I groaned.

‘I saw you.’

His fatherly tone might have been amusing and endearing if the image of him yelling,
Precisely what are your intentions towards my daughter?
at David, hadn’t been strobing in my mind. I shouldn’t have been surprised that I’d not even got away with one date.

‘Ziggi . . . look, it’s all new. David . . . David Harris. He’s very nice. No family. Does stuff with computers. Smart, fun,
reliable.’